


Experiments in Choice

by bailor



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Canon Death, Gen, M/M, Not A Fix-It, There's definitely some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bailor/pseuds/bailor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton was only taken in because he wanted to be.</p>
<p>Phil was certain of that.</p>
<p>And everything that happened after was a direct consequence of that choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experiments in Choice

Clint Barton was only taken in because he wanted to be.

Phil was certain of that.

Barton slouched in an uncomfortable plastic monstrosity SHIELD considered to be a chair, his arms crossed over his chest and his foot tapping against the floor. He was stripped of his weapons (though Phil seriously doubted the man didn’t have something hidden somewhere), but his eyes were lazily drifting over the room. Finally, that intelligent gaze landed on Phil.

“Is this the part where you tell me how I’ll be working for the greater good?” The archer’s lips curled into a smirk, his arms crossed and an index finger tapping idly at his bicep. “Because that’s just a great selling point, you know. Appealing to my humanity.” 

“Mr. Barton, I am more than aware that such an appeal would fall on deaf ears.” Phil replied pleasantly, offering him a cup of SHIELD’s best coffee (which was to say, the worst coffee he’d ever had in his entire life). “However, we do have an excellent benefits package. And a knack for keeping you off the shit list of the FBI, CIA, and several other, more secret organizations that would like a word or two with you.”

“Isn’t SHIELD on that list of agencies that want a word with me?” Barton took the coffee, but set it aside, his eyes dark and considering. He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the table. “Why should I believe you?” 

Phil considered his answer for a moment. There was a tap at the door, and the senior agent stood to answer it. With a nod of thanks, he accepted a plate of pineapple coconut scones from a junior agent. Yes, baked goods seemed a little immature for what SHIELD was trying to sell, but even Director Fury had been surprised at how well that particular ploy worked.

“Mr. Barton, at this point, I’d say you don’t have much of a choice.” He offered the other man a bland grin. “Help yourself.” 

Barton fixed him with a thousand yard stare, his expression tight and impossible to read, his arms crossed and tight. Phil simply helped himself to a scone, a single eyebrow raised. 

“You better have dental.” Barton finally said, reaching across the table to snag one of the baked goods. Phil brushed a crumb from his pristine suit, raising an eyebrow. 

“The very best the government has to offer.” He replied, pushing himself to his feet. “Welcome aboard, Agent Barton.” 

\-----

Natasha Romanov was not brought in by SHIELD against her will, despite her vehement protests to the contrary.

Phil was tense, his fingers drumming lightly against the shelf from a surveillance van a mile away from his asset. It had been a long two months playing cat-and-mouse with the assassin, and he was not entirely certain whether SHIELD represented the cat or the mouse in this particular game. As the agency circled tighter, closing its net around her, he became aware of one thing: the Black Widow was becoming desperate. And a desperate Black Widow could only spell disaster. 

And now they had a chance to end it. “Agent Barton, take the shot.” His voice was cool and collected over the comm line.

“Negative, sir.” Clint’s voice was barely a whisper on the other end. “Bringing her in.”

“That is a direct order, Barton.” Phil replied, ignored the twinge of fear in his chest. “Take the shot, and take the target down.”

“Negative.” Clint repeated, and there was that faint humor in his voice, that infuriating flippancy that Phil was all too accustomed to. “She’s an asset to us. I’m bringing her in.” That seemingly settled, Clint tugged his earpiece out and dropped it to the ground, crushing it beneath his foot.

Phil was fairly certain he was going to kill him.

Hours later, Romanov was scowling at them from behind a one-way mirror, clearly aware of how they operated. She was all tension and controlled fury, a dangerous combination if he ever knew one. 

“You disobeyed a direct order.” He pointed out.

“Then write me up.” Clint shrugged, clearly unbothered. “She wanted me to find her. And there is no way that the Black Widow didn’t know my mission was to kill her.” He paused, his eyes flickering up to meet Phil’s. “She’s done.” 

“Romanov is a dangerous, manipulative assassin, Barton.” Phil replied, his voice level. Clint gave him an infuriating half-smile, raising an eyebrow as if in a dare. “Director Fury is livid.”

“But he gave us an interrogation room.” Clint countered cheerfully. “Come on, get the recruiting scones, let’s acquire an assassin. It’ll be fun.” 

In the end, she was a much harder sell than Clint had been. But when she finally stopped biting out Russian invectives and ate the scones, Phil let out a faint sigh somewhere between resignation and disbelief. 

He really needed to stop picking up stray agents.

\-----

By this point in their working relationship, Phil was well aware that Clint Barton was never taken unawares by mistake.

Unfortunately for Clint, he did not find this to be particularly charming when they had to rescue him from enemy headquarters. Neither did Natasha, for that matter.

“You’re supposed to be kind and loving.” Clint groused at them from the medical bed. Neither agent so much as glanced up at him. Phil flipped to the next page in his file, and scribbled down an absent note. Natasha simply continued sharpening her knives. “You just rescued me from captivity, I should not be the one in trouble here.”

“Perhaps we would be more inclined to take care of you if you weren’t such a fucking idiot.” Natasha suggested sweetly, her gaze flicking up to his face for just a moment, a deadly smile pulling at her lips. “You’re lucky we came for you at all.”

“Oh please. I know you’ll always come for me.” Clint stuck out his tongue, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. The cast around his leg was already proving to be pretty damn bothersome. “Sir, she’s being mean. Ground her.”

“I am afraid I agree with Agent Romanov this time.” Phil replied mildly, his gaze still stuck firmly to the file in his hands. “Perhaps next time you won’t allow yourself to be captured by the enemy to gather intel.”

“That is not what happened.” Clint scoffed. “You saw the reports. They overpowered me, plain and simple.” At that, both agents paused to fix him with an annoyed glance. “What?”

“Agent Barton, I am very aware that you knew exactly what you were doing.” Phil replied after a moment, shaking his head as he returned to his paperwork. “Using yourself as bait was not an authorized move.” And receiving that phone call had been one of the less pleasant experiences of his life. It had likely been even less pleasant for Clint’s handler on that particular mission. Phil liked to think he had been polite. Natasha had informed him that she had had kinder interactions with the Red Room.

Well. It was understandable.

“Such a stickler for the rules, sir, really.” Clint offered him a sheepish grin. “It worked though.” 

“If you ever do that again,” Natasha was on her feet, crossing the room in a fluid, sensual motion. “You had better hope we don’t come for you. Because whatever I can come up with will be infinitely worse than anything they can do. Do we understand one another, Clint?” Her lips were curved into that same, sweet smile.

“Jesus, Nat, warn a guy before you start making the death threats.” Clint made a face at her. “It’s simply too attractive.” 

“We all know I’m not the one you’re attracted to, Clint Barton.” Natasha ran a nail under his chin, light and teasing. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave you two alone.” Clint stared at her, his composure dropping for just a moment. Phil, for his part, continued to flip through the paperwork, as if she had not just implied – well. She glanced between them, her lips curving into a small, amused smile. “Oh, boys. It’s so obvious.” With that, she slipped out of the room. 

For a long moment, there was only silence in the room. Finally, Clint glanced over at his handler. “I knew you were coming for me.” His voice was softer, less playful. “It wasn’t like I was throwing myself to the wolves.” 

“Barton, I do not want to have this discussion right now.” Phil replied, his voice level, but his fingers twitched at his side. 

“I don’t know why you and Nat are so pissed.” Clint rolled his eyes after a moment. “I mean, seriously, a broken leg? I’ve had worse just-”

Phil snapped the file shut, effectively cutting him off. He sucked in a deep breath, and turned that level gaze to his agent. “Stop, Clint.” His voice was raw, despite his rigid control in every other aspect. “Just – stop.” 

“I’m okay.” The archer glanced at him, a frown tugging at his lips.

“I am aware of that.” Phil was on his feet, across the room, before his mind registered the movement. Barton, for his part, kept his gaze level, his jaw stubborn. “Let me ask you something – do you value your life? At all?” 

“Excuse me?”

“You gave yourself up. You didn’t ask for advice, you didn’t ask for permission, you just did it.” Phil’s voice was level once more, even as his hands clenched into fists at his side. “You’re very, very lucky they didn’t kill you. And you did it for intel.” He sucked in another breath, forcing his lungs to move. “So, allow me to ask once more – do you value your life? Or do you see fit to simply throw it away?”

“I knew you would come for me.” Clint said stubbornly after a moment, his eyes darting to the side. “And that intel allowed SHIELD to destroy a small sex trafficking ring, so-”

“You are such a fucking idiot.” Phil interrupted, shaking his head in bemusement. 

“So they tell me.” Clint cocked his head. Before Phil could answer, Clint reached out to grab at his tie, tugging him down. For a brief moment, their lips were an inch apart, Phil’s breath warm on his lips. And then the archer closed the distance between them. 

About half an hour later, he was sincerely wishing his leg weren’t broken. Or that Phil would stop being so damn noble about the whole thing.

\----

For the first time since he met him, Phil knew that Clint Barton was taken against his will. 

Worse than that, Phil was fairly certain he was powerless to rescue him this time. Another, equally unpleasant first. It took him a moment to jump back into the distraction of work, to begin assembling the team Fury had been so long anticipating. 

He needed Natasha.

With a faint sigh, he brought the phone to his ear. Once her interrogation subjects answered, it was, per usual, all blustering. He was hardly in the mood to play games, considering. He gave an idle threat – something about blowing up the entire block – and let out a faint sigh as the phone was handed off to his agent.

“We need you to come in.” He was surprised at how calm he sounded, considering he was on the verge of collapse.

“Are you kidding me? I’m working.” Natasha snapped at him.

“This takes precedence.” Phil replied, tapping his fingers idly against his thigh. 

“I’m in the middle of an interrogation. This moron is giving me everything.” Natasha huffed, clearly annoyed. There was a faint pause on the other end of the line as her supposed captors argued. “Look, you can’t pull me out of this right now.”

“Natasha.” Phil’s voice dropped, just slightly. And he almost cursed himself, for allowing his mask to slip, even slightly. Even with Natasha. Because now, more than ever, he needed to be Agent Phil Coulson. He couldn’t afford to be Phil, who was human and had emotion and whose lover- “Barton’s been compromised.” There was a beat of silence, heavy between them. 

“Let me put you on hold.” She said finally, deadly intent evident in her voice. And this, Phil could do. Listening to the Russian demolish her opponents was soothing, in an odd way. When Natasha Romanov was on a mission, there was nothing that could stop her. He had no doubt this extended to bringing Clint back. 

A few moments later, the grunting ceased on the other end of the phone. “Where’s Barton now?” Natasha’s cool voice demanded.

“We don’t know.” 

“But he’s alive.” There was no room for question in her tone, hard and demanding. 

“We think so. I’ll brief you on everything when you get back. But first we need you to talk to the Big Guy.” Phil glanced behind him as a small group of agents moved into the room.

“Coulson, you know Stark trusts me about as far as he can throw me.” Natasha sounded almost amused on the other end of the phone, no doubt as grateful as he was for the change in subject. 

“No. I’ve got Stark. You get the Big Guy.” Phil allowed himself a tiny smile. She let out a Russian curse. “My sentiments exactly. Good luck, Natasha.” With a click, he ended the phone call and leaned against the wall, for just a moment. The image of Clint Barton, eyes bright blue and face twisted in some unrecognizable emotion, flash behind his eyes.

No. 

They would get him back.

Phil didn’t doubt this.

\----

Phil Coulson didn’t make mistakes.

He never made a choice without considering every possible outcome.

And he never made a decision in which said outcome would not be in his favor.

Confronting Loki was a decision. A moment to buy time, a moment to distract him long enough for Natasha to free Clint. To give the Avengers a chance to stop this madness.

And if he had to sacrifice his life?

Well.

That wasn’t the worst possible outcome of this day.

He leveled the enormous weapon, considering it. It was built more to intimidate than anything else, of that he was certain. SHIELD was fully capable of building weapons with twice the payload at half the size. But the intimidation factor – the drama – that was what he needed, for this plan to work out.

He wished, only for a moment, that Clint were here to say good bye.

He allowed himself to close his eyes, suck in a deep breath. Allowed himself to feel the heavy grief of walking to his death without seeing his lover once more, the loneliness of walking to his death alone, the slight twinge of fear. 

And then he came back to himself, professional and collected and ready.

He was ready.

Phil stepped into the room, easily dropping one of Loki’s minions, aiming the gun cheerfully at the demigod. “Step away, please.” He was pleasantly surprised at the neutrality in his voice, as if this were a normal conversation. Loki’s eyed widened, marginally, and he stepped back. 

Phil had no doubts that this was going to end very poorly.

“You like this? We started working on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer. Even I don’t know what it does.” With a flick of his index finger, the oversized weapon fired up. And it was all he could do to keep talking, keep distracting, force the rage and pain and fear at bay. “You wann find out?” 

And then there was a sharp pain in his back. In his chest. Thor slammed his fist into the side of the Hulk’s cage, roaring. Phil’s blood was pounding in his ears, his chest alight with pain – and then he was sinking to the ground, eyes half-closed, sucking in desperate, painful breaths. 

He hadn’t bought enough time. His last fucking job, his last chance to do something with meaning, and he hadn’t done it right.

It took him a moment, to come back to himself, to think through the pain. He could still – he could still fix this. Not stop himself from dying, not even stop Loki, but buy more time. Which was, in the end, all this plan had been good for.

He wondered if Natasha would know to apologize to Clint for him.

“You’re going to lose.” Phil said after a moment, his eyes darting over to the demigod. His breath was raspy, weak. 

“Why?” Loki eyed him critically, considering. 

“It’s in your nature.”

“Your heroes are scattered. Your floating fortress falls from the sky. Where is my disadvantage?” The words were haughty, his lips curling into a faint grin. And Phil wished, for a moment, he could rip that awful smirk away with his bare hands.

“You lack conviction.”

“I don’t think I-” He flicked his finger over the trigger, watching in faint amusement as it blasted the god through the wall. It was, perhaps, a bit petty, to shoot him. It wouldn’t harm Loki, longterm, and it wouldn’t keep Phil alive. But it felt good.

“So that’s what it does.” He mused, glancing down at the gun in his hand. 

And then he was waiting, left alone with his thoughts. Clint’s smile flashed behind his eyes, warm and unguarded, as he teased him about God knew what. His eyes, bright blue and deadly. His –

Fury was there. He was vaguely aware of Fury bending beside him, his face tight and controlled. “Sorry boss.” 

“Just stay awake.” Fury’s hand closed over his chin, bringing his gaze up. “Eyes on me.” 

“I’m clocking out here.” Phil glanced at him, trying to suck in a wet breath. 

“Not an option.” Fury all but snapped, his eye narrowing slightly. 

“It’s okay, boss. This was never gonna work if they didn’t have something to-“ 

And things were black.  
\----

It was over. There were no choices to be made or not made, not this time. All Clint knew was that he was supposed to go through the motions. He woke up. He ate whatever Natasha put in front of him at lunch and dinner. He sat silently through psych sessions, and trained harder than he ever remembered training.

It wasn’t enough to keep him asleep at night.

Every night, it was the same. He could fall asleep, out of sheer exhaustion or the sleep meds he’d stolen from medical. And within hours, he was biting back a scream, fingers groping desperately at Phil’s side of the bed to come up empty. He would push himself to his feet, robotically, move to the closet. There, he could surround himself with Phil’s clothes, his scent.

Maybe it was enough to pretend he wasn’t dead.

Maybe it was enough to pretend he wasn’t crying, silent and stoic, curled among the suits and shitty vintage Captain America T-shirts.

For an hour, for two hours, Clint could pretend it didn’t hurt to breathe. He could tell himself that Phil was off on an op, or visiting home, or working late. He could drag his nails against his skin and choke back his screams or sobs and it was okay.

And in the morning, he would slip out of his room, face dry and expression neutral. He would dress in the same standard SHIELD outfit, go in to work. And he would ignore the looks, the whispers.

(And maybe one day he would stop imagining Phil’s soft, comforting words in the back of his mind. “It wasn’t your fault, Clint. I don’t blame you. I knew what I was doing. I love you.”).

Natasha was worried. She didn’t say anything, not to him and not to anyone else, but he could read her almost as well as he could – used to be able to read – Phil. In the gentle brush of her fingers over his shoulder, he could feel her comfort. The brief softening of her expression, he could see her affection.

None of it mattered, really.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was still here. Why he was still going. It wasn’t as if he particularly cared, one way or another. They could find someone else for the team, or make do without him. It wasn’t as if they were much of a team anyway, not at this point. 

And so he went through the motions every day, dragging himself through the familiar routines that were sharp and painful without Phil’s quirked brow or exasperated sighs. He pushed himself to be whatever they expected him to be, devoid of personality, devoid of whatever made him him.

He tried to convince himself he lost that human piece when Loki’s fingers dug into his brain, his nails raking along his synapses and stripping him of thought. Of feeling.

At night, when he was alone and things were bad, he knew he was a ghost. That he had died with Phil, died and he hadn’t even felt it.

Maybe this was his punishment. To keep living when he was dead.

“Clint.” Natasha’s voice was gentle. He glanced up from his spot curled on the closet floor, wrapped in suits and T-shirts and tears streaking his face.

“Get out.” His voice was hard. He was hardly surprised she’d finally broken in. But he didn’t want her there, didn’t deserve her comfort.

“I miss him, too.” She knelt on the floor in front of him, leaning forward to pull him into her arms. He didn’t resist. “Clint, I miss him, too.” 

And he was crying, silent and stoic and painful, his tears damp against her chest, his fingers scrabbling for purchase in the soft material. He could feel her breath hitch, the soft drip of her own tears against the skin of his forehead, and he loved her for it. Loved her for grieving with him. 

“I killed him.” Clint admitted in the silence, his voice raw.

“Loki killed him.” Natasha’s voice was soft, warm, with no evidence of the tears still dripping down her cheeks. “And he would kick your ass for implying that you were even capable of killing him.” 

There was a gurgle of hysterical laughter – it took him a moment to realize it was bubbling from his own chest, wild and manic and altogether inappropriate. But Natasha laughed, too, a soft breathy sound. 

“Yeah. He would, huh?” 

“He loved you.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry, Clint.” 

And it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough. He was pretty sure he would never stop feeling that raw ache in his chest when he passed Phil’s office door. Would never stop glancing over his shoulder, waiting for Phil to dryly explain why Clint was being an idiot. Would never stop reaching out in the middle of the night, only to grasp at empty sheets.

But for one night, Natasha could help shoulder his grief. Could keep him afloat, when all he wanted to do was drown.

They’d all made their choices. And in the end, it hadn’t meant a damn thing.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first work in the Avengers fandom (and first work ever posted here, so yeah?). Constructive criticism would be much appreciated. As it is, hope you enjoyed it, and I'm very sorry to have left Phil dead. I'm not happy about it either.


End file.
